


In Which Molly Fetches the Coffee

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Molly's mum is not to blame for Sherlock's prattishness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's mum has given her some advice for pulling boys. It shouldn't exactly surprise anyone to find none of it works on Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Molly Fetches the Coffee

_Molly:_

I slide into the seat beside Sherlock, my chin up and my shoulders straight. That's what Mum said to do: be confident; laugh a lot; flirt with his friends. Right. I can do this.

"Hiya, Sherlock," I say, my voice much too high and silly. He doesn't even glance up from the sample he's examining with the lab's best microscope. (Quite the high-powered gadget, and I'm pleased pink that he likes it because  _I'm_ the one that put the order in for it last winter.)

He does, however, surprisingly acknowledge my existence with that impossibly deep voice of his. "Molly."

Oh no. I've just let out the shrillest and bumbliest peal of laughter I've ever heard. Sherlock spares me a quick and agitated sideways glance before going back to the sample, and I can feel my face reddening horribly. Quick: think of something to talk about before I melt away into a puddle of nerves and self-ridicule. "How're things with the new flatshare? Hope he isn't too loud or- uhm- messy." I laugh again, aware that I am completely ridiculous, and brush my hair (parted way off to the side, just like Sherlock likes it) out of my face.

Sherlock sits up and sighs deeply, like he's resigning himself to the fact that I'm not going away, and I try not to wince at his tone as he drawls, "John is a perfectly acceptable flatmate. He's fastidiously neat with his own belongings, yet incredibly patient about the various messes I leave about the flat. Disarray suits me- makes it easier to find evidence of tampering- but John manages to somehow  _not_ infuriate me when he tidies up. And he never unsettles my experiments." Dropping his eyes back to the lenses of the microscope, he adds, "As to the noise…he can be aggravatingly quiet when he thinks I'm doing some important bit of research. It's better when he's being noisy; the ear acclimates to silence and provides a dull ringing that I can't stand. He watches rubbish on the television far too often but he never complains when I play violin in the middle of the night or when I don't answer all of his insipid questions, so." He ends his soliloquy with a little tip of the head, as if to say "that's that, then" and begins adjusting the dials on the side of the microscope.

"He sounds perfect," I say automatically, not even bothering to hide the jealousy in my voice. But I'm not jealous that Sherlock's found a decent flatshare; I'm jealous because I know that Sherlock will never, ever talk about me with such an approving tone. I suddenly, stupidly, dislike Sherlock's new flatmate.

Sherlock makes a small noise of agreement and swaps slides, his eyes narrowing. I rub my lips together (I'm wearing a touch of lipstick so that my mouth doesn't look too small) and remember what my mum said.  _Flirt with his friends._  Clearing my throat, I ask shakily: "So, this John fellow…is he, erm, uh, is he seeing anyone then?" It feels like the wrong thing to say as soon as I've said it; Sherlock goes entirely still, his hand paused in mid-air.

He lets out a breath and brings his hand to the microscope, but his jaw is still tight. "No, although I don't imagine you're his type. John thrives on authority, and you're nothing if not unintimidating. Still, I'll be happy to pass the word on for you."

While I'm still debating this (and the absolute mortification that will come if John turns me down, or- somehow worse- if he shows an interest in me) when Sherlock sits up and graces me with one of his joyless, smug smiles. "Of course," he says, a dark edge to his voice, "I have to wonder at your sudden change of mind."

"Wha-" I begin, but his smile just grows wider and I falter uncomfortably. Oh God, I shouldn't have said anything! I should have just left well enough alone. Mum and her dreadful advice; I'm going to ring her as soon as Sherlock leaves and give her a good old-fashioned dressing down for this.

"You met him," Sherlock states, and I just know he's going to analyze this whole little discussion to death. "You barely glanced at him- too worried about whether you'd made the coffee to my satisfaction, and to answer that: no, you didn't, I clearly said two sugars and yet I tasted three- so it's not his physical appearance you find interesting."

Got me there. John's not a bad looking bloke but he's not nearly as fit as Sherlock is, either. And I've never been much for blondes, anyhow. Mum's always said I get carried away over the Mr. Darcy types. "Well…no…" I say, mostly just to fill the uncomfortable silence that's stretching between us.

"No, of course not, John's barely taller than you and not nearly posh enough for your taste," Sherlock grins (what a dreadful grin he can wear sometimes, looking every bit the bully) and I try to fight down a blush. He goes on: "So, what changed your mind? You know he's a doctor, but someone like you isn't motivated solely by wealth, although clearly you do like the  _appearance_ of wealth. An ex-soldier won't hold your interest; too rugged. So, what else? From our conversation you know him to be tidy, patient, and a fan of- I suspect- the same crap telly you prefer. Why would that draw your sudden interest?"

He leans back in his chair, studying me carefully, and I can feel my ears going red. Why, oh why, did I ever think playing mind games with Sherlock bleeding Holmes would work? The mild curse, even though it's just a thought, embarrasses me even more and I sink down in my chair. Honestly, right now, I wouldn't mind it at all if I just disappeared. Poof. Then Sherlock could have a grand old time trying to figure out how I managed it and we'd both win. "You're not interested in John at all," he says after a short length of time, his eyebrows pulled together. "Interesting. But then why ask?" His brows lift, suddenly, and his eyes widen. I have the strong and sudden urge to cover my face with my hands as he mutters, "Ah," and turns back to the microscope, apparently done with me.

My voice shaking a little, I ask, "I-I'm just going to pop down for a coffee; want anything?"

"Two sugars, Molly," he says, not looking at me. "Not three. Two. And make it fresh."

Nodding slowly, I stand (oh goodness, my knees feel like water) and walk out of the room, only knocking over one thing on my way. As soon as the door clicks closed, I yank my phone from my lab coat's left pocket and dial.

"Mum! How could you?" I hiss, moving down the hall, as Sherlock's voice in the back of my mind repeats:  _Two sugars, Molly. Not three._


End file.
